What are you, Sweetling?
by IPut a-SpellOnYou15
Summary: "What are you, Sweetling?" He asked her.'What' indeed. A monster?A treasure?An outcast? No one knew what to make of the girl King Joffrey captured on his hunting, and it would take a honeyed tongue of deception to decode her, someone that spins lies for pleasure; who knows a human mind better than itself; someone with grey-green eyes that didn't smile when his mouth did. Petyr/Oc
1. Chapter 1

ONE

"Council! I demand your presence in the throne room. _Immediately_!"

The deafening sound of door smashing against wall had the small council turn to gaze at the intruding golden-haired boy; as he burst through the double doors, his entourage of guards trailed behind him. Before being disturbed, the council had been in the middle of a deep discussion about Stannis's advancing attack on the city. Lord Tyrion was finally moulding battle strategies, but he soon felt the heat of debate fizzle out, rendering another chance at organizing battle gone. He sighed heavily before grasping his goblet. "You're Grace. We are in the middle of discussing the well-being of Kings landing, we cannot-" he began, his lips nearly touching them rim.

"Shut up, imp! I didn't say you had any say in this. Now, all of you, come to the throne room. I have something to show." With that, he left the room.

This was not a rare occurrence. The council shared a silent look, no one saying a word. And there were no words needed, it when they were collectively thinking the same thing:_ What does that brat want now?_

* * *

It was afternoon, and if one were to look for a man or woman of even slight nobility, they would have been in poor luck. Each noble lady and lord alike filled the vast throne room. The mass throne of a thousand blades sat imposing upon them all. The longer silence ring out, the more all wondered what was going on.

Just as patience ran thin, the heavy double doors crashed open. A guard marched down the isle, some sort of "package" in tow.

"Look at what beast I have caught on my hunt. My people, gaze upon my _prize_." Young king Joffrey wore an obnoxiously nauseating smirk as he sat upon the Iron Throne. His behind was just a tad too comfortable there.

Now, when one is told that a beast is in their presence, most would cower or laugh. However, much to king Joffrey's disappointment, not one soul did either of the two. The beast this not wriggle and writhe, it barely seemed living save for its shallow breaths. Seeing little reaction, he motioned for his guard to through it to the stone floor.

Two pairs of cunning eyes flickered to the boy, those of the mocking jay himself, Lord Petyr Baelish, and his whispering subordinate, Lord Varys. While often in the shadows, both men knew when to pay attention, to listen and when justice is needed. It seemed a situation was approaching soon. in which all three were needed.

A deafening thwack echoed through the stone room, rattling the bones of all standing within it. Rather than a roar or hiss, the mess let out a breathy groan, as it was thrown down to the tiled floor.

"I found this _beast_!" He directed his head down in disgust - and pride for himself- to the wildling, "When I was aiming for a great horned just as I let lose my arrow, she got in the way." There was a pulse of murmurs in the hall.

She?

"Show my council your wound!" He commanded.

Nothing but silence issued from the disposed bundle on the floor. Anyone could see that this being was weakened, long limbs that held little power to stabilize.

"Show them!" Joffrey cried with a childish ring.

They didn't move, head only sinking further down, as though waving off a pestering insect.

"I am the _King_! I _own you_! I _command you_ to show how I have maimed you!" Joffrey's scream rang in the ears of all around.

Slowly, the head ascended to look up, shoulders began to become visible. The being shook. A pained smile pulled at its cracked lips, small streams of blood poured from the crevices and down to its chin. When they did not cower, the little king to scampered an inch or two back into his throne. Then, to the best of their ability, they stood. Just as the king had said, there was a large arrow straight through her thigh, the feathered end snapped from being thrown down.

"That's right you little _beast_! You will obey my every word. You know, I made her walk behind my horse as we rode back, after she tried to escape from my men and I." He turned back to the form,"Did you really think you could escape me?" He said, "In any case, you might actually hold some purpose here."

The King did not cease his infernal jabs of condescending cruelty, but just as everyone though he had finally finished, he paused, and then added one last statement. "Though I doubt it."

The eyes in the Throne room were wide, all breathe held, that is, all except one.

The face of curious intrigue belonged to Lord Petyr Baelish. A clever, honey-tongued man that had eyes and ears scattered through the city, ensuring the common statement told in Kings landing, "Trust no one. Now, he was not a sympathetic man, by any account, but he knew when to pay attention and where he may profit and excel. This moment was worth paying attention to; no doubt in his mind stirred to tell him that whatever this creature was, was just a waif that he needn't worry about. However with all things considered, despite its strong spirt, the beast was to be taken in, be it as a prize or for a place to heal, it would be caged.

Petyr chastised himself: it was a she. Not a beast, but damn well close to an angel from above.

From her ghostly white exterior, to the curious markings barely visible on and around her ankles and hands, she resembled something unearthly. Much like a ghost.

All was interesting about this girl, indeed, but that would be her weakness. Because of it, she would be analyzed, tortured, have truth pried from her grasp and exposed. But it was not the peculiarity of her supernatural state that truly enraptured the court, that day. It was her eyes that peaked the interest of the king's court. Those irises shared the same composition as the Mad King's blood; one scarlet, the other royal purple, and both dancing with fire.


	2. Chapter 2

TWO

Warm bath water stung the wild girl's wounds. Gentle hisses sounded from her, but she made no complaint when the lady servants began to whip the dirt away. This task was not a particularly pleasant job as it consisted of coaxing the grime out of her scalp and delicate skin, but it was a command from His Majesty that they didn't dare disobey.

_Finally, the king was satisfied with the disgusted gasps from his court. As she stood, dirt outlined the lithe muscled in her legs. True to his statement, a smooth arrow penetrated her thigh. The wound was a festering red from both blood and incubating infection. Her skin seemed to be growing paler. The longer the thick silence wore on, the tenser it got, until finally, a woman in the front of the crowd fainted, landing unceremoniously on the hard floor. This seemed to snap everyone out of their trancelike state._

_"Now then, someone clean this mess up! I want to see what this waif looks like without all this filth." Joffrey waltzed down to her and stared her in the eye. A bustle of handmaidens flocked towards her; just as they went to grab her, Joffrey grasped the arrow as though he were to pull it out. Everyone held their breath. _

_"I want my arrow back, you bitch."_

_No one saw the flash of a snarl pass over Lord Baelish's collected features. Not an eye caught the extra additional anger that filled the Hound's body for a moment,and no one cared to see the flinch from the traitor's daughter, Sansa. Whatever this being was, she was not something to be seen each passing day. She was strange, special even, and she did not deserve to be stepped on._

Brown sludge coated the rim of the tub once she was fully cleaned. Her skin was red from the washcloths being wiped across her skin so many times in one sitting. Once dried, she was draped in a simple dress; the top had two small straps of light sheer fabric, falling into two layers of cloth overlapping in the front, and meeting at her small waist. There were layered fabrics of sheer, lace and some with more weight, with lengths differing from the next, all consisting of shades of light tea stain. To finish her newly presentable look, was a light brown belt slipped around her middle, ensuring she was completely hidden from perverse eyes.

As she stood in front of the room's mirror, a gasp escaped her pale pink lips. She had never seen herself clean and groomed, to be what could pass as beautiful; she was truly quite frightened by her reflection. Her hair was cut shorter, barely two inches long, resting just above her large eyes. The dirt that had been scraped away produced pale skin with numerous scattered scars of different origins. The arrow wound had been cleaned and bound, and despite her will to decline help of walking, she needed it. The handmaiden on her left caught the strange brown markings along the girl's forearm. She reached out, curiosity getting the better of her nosy mind; the second maiden saw this in the mirror. As her friend's fingers mover closer, she felt a warmth coming from close by. Much like a dying fire in the winter, only this pulsed: like it was alive. Inches away now, were her fingers-

Just then, there was an abrupt rap on the small wooden door, silencing the girl's thoughts and the maid's movements. The heat disappeared.

"His Majesty the King commands your presence at once in the throne hall, girl." A voice ordered.

She did not look away from the door. Surly the king wouldn't want to flaunt her and shame her mind this night? After she had just been captured and disgraced already? Unless he wished to roast and serve her like a wild boar.

"Child, you must go. If you don't, the King will set his guards on you!" The lady on the right cried to her quietly; a shiver passed though the woman, but the girl caught onto what she did not say. The left maiden went to dispose of the rags; the other watched her leave. Then returned her tired gaze to the being before her with a sigh. But those mismatched eyes were already on her, she gasped. They narrowed, the poor maiden was petrified as it seemed all air was stolen from the room.

Then, just as soon as it happened, the exhausted beast returned. The girl limped to the door. The door's handle was stiff and unfamiliar under her hands; they had never truly known what it was like to dwell in a fully furnished home and subsequently the object in her palm was quite foreign. Outside in the hall, stood a scar-faced man standing at a height that dwarfed her. To almost anyone he would be a nightmare come to reality; the flesh on half his face was mauled and warped to pink scars and deformations, his murky brown hair tossed over on side of his head to cover a portion of his wound, and eyes that lusted for blood. However, despite this, looking up at him, she grinned slightly.

"What is your name, sur?"She asked quietly. The man flicked his brooding gaze down to her, "They call me Hound." He ground out after a moment.

"But w-what is your real name?" she pressed cautiously. He did not answer, choosing to lead her away to their destination. During their journey to the dining hall, her hand rested on Hound's arm for balance, much to his dismay.

Her eyes did not tear from his face, not once; it seemed his cindered flesh held no fear for her. As they descended through the unending halls, the grand oak doors loomed far too close and approached them far too quick for the girl's liking. Her steps became more unwilling, and slower, but the Hound simply dragged her forward.

At the doors, she stared dead ahead, like her gaze was trying to see through to the other side of the door. The small, bony arms around Hound's were stiff and unmoving; this girl was petrified. Or so it appeared.

She felt the air around her change, and a lock of unfamiliar dark hair tickled her shoulder.

"My name...is Sandor Clegane, _girl_. But it would do you good to forget it."

A fragile smile etched itself upon her face, she nodded.

Hound's large hand pushed the doors open, a very noticeable screech came from the aging wood. As the petite girl was guided in by Sandor, all was silent; not a human spoke, but every eye was trained on her. Feeling this, she shrank further to the knight next to her, but to no avail. The armour he wore had no give and so left her to only press against cold metal.

"Release her, Dog."

The command echoed through the room. Just as the king said, she was left to stand alone. Though the girl did not see it, Hound did so reluctantly.

"Now, I present to you my entire prize." Joffrey boasted, his arm sweeping over her form like it was a gold trophy. Her shoulders squeezed closer together in discomfort. "Now, tell me your name."

The porcelain girl made no move to obey.

She stood at the front of the crowd, standing a meter from the castle's lords and ladies. Now that she was closer, Lord Baelish could see her clearly from his standing place; she was a young girl with milky white skin, hair whiter than a Targaryen's and eyes sharp as a needle. With all grime wiped away, she was remarkably beautiful. Then, quicker than his own silver tongue, her eyes flicked to his gaze. In that one look, the lord could see a beg for help. There was determination and something he couldn't detect, too.

The little king bristled at her silence and was about to snap at her when a soft scrape of a shoe echoed through the hall.

A gentle arm rested lightly on her back guiding her closer to the Iron Throne. She looked up and saw a short plump man draped in yellow robes, a mock understanding mask of emotion on his rounded face.

"What is your name?" He asked her gently.

A crease formed in between her thick eyebrows, and a worried expression twisted her fine features. A few moments passed, until finally...

"Eirie..."

If he hadn't been listening, he wouldn't have heard her response.

"My name...is Eirie."

"Eirie, I am Lord Varys. May I tell His Grace your name?" No one in the court room could hear the conversation, and that was starting to fill Joffrey's pants with fire ants.

"Well? What's she saying?" The golden-head demanded childishly.

The girl nodded to Lord Varys, "She says her name is Eirie, your Majesty. Though I do not entirely believe she enjoys speaking." He added carefully.

To her right side, Lord Baelish let out a deep chuckle, to which he received a tiny smile from Eirie.

"Well? What else?! What can she do? I don't want a boring beast sitting in my castle!" The boy in the crown spat.

Varys' mouth pursed, he turned his head to the thin girl's delicate ear, "Do you have any...talents, dear Eirie?"

A look of utter terror froze Eirie's face, but quietly slipped away, another emotion flashed, but it was so quick that no one saw it.

"I-I can sing, Lord Varys."

"Your grace, she can-"

"Shut up. I want to hear her speak; your voice is getting on my nerves." King Joffrey said dismissively, waving Lord Varys off; leaving Eirie to stand alone once more. She watched him go.

"Your grace, I can sing."

A signature smirk oozed onto Joffrey's face, "And sing you shall."


	3. Chapter 3

THREE

"DOG! WHEN YOU'RE _QUITE_ FINISHED DEALING WITH HER, I DEMAND YOU RETURN AT _ONCE_."

The wail of Joffrey reached the ears of both Hound and Eirie as they reached the opposite end of the court room. The Hound muttered out a gruff "Yes, your Grace." before dragging Eirie down the winding corridors of Kingslanding.

The distinct, haunting clink of metal on stone rebounded off the walls around them. It reminded Hound of ghost stories read to his brother as a child. How the dead would be bound to a reaper by blood, bone and chain; marching endlessly to find salvation. This march, however, differed greatly from that of the dead. Much like an unruly pet, Eirie too was chained, only she struggled and fought. One shackle clasped around her neck, connecting to her wrists by two smaller chains. From there, chains ran down her legs to connect to the shackles that resided at her ankles. If one were to say she were a prisoner rather than a prize or guest, they would not be far off. She was out of her element. A fish without a pond; a lion in a cage; a dragon without fire.

As the two descended further into the catacombs of Kingslanding castle, windows shrank into stone, air became stale and thin, and the sound of life petered out into echoes. Before long, they arrived at a small door; door being a loose term in this instance. Iron bars ran across the frame vertically, creating a cell likeness to the room. Inside, there was a simple cot with a thin fabric resembling a blanket, and a chamber pot. Eirie shrank away.

A disturbance in the quiet shook Eirie from her grief; keys on a ring. The door opened with a sickening screech once the correct key was found.

"Get in there, girl," The Hound growled out, "And don't think of escaping either. I'll be back later."

"No!"

She cried and stumbled into the room, tripping over her chains," Y-You can't do this..." Her attempts at bettering her situation fell on deaf ears; the Hound had already gone, along the majority of day light.

"_PLEASE_!"

She yanked at the bars in hopes that there was a flaw, but to no avail. She was trapped and chained. Eirie was a new play thing for the king, and the small girl could only listen to the sound of her heartbeat.

"...Please..."

Curling up in the opposite corner of her cot, trying to ignore the chains, Eirie kept watch of the corridor outside the barred door. There were whispers of spies plaguing Kingslanding. Eirie wouldn't let them get to her. So with weary eyes, she sat in thought. Letting her mind permeate around her; consume her. _How could this have happened to me? Not one night ago, I had been carefully living my freedom-my well earned and constructed freedom, but then...then the boy simply had to take aim at my prey. Mine! He had no need of it. It was just a prize to him. All these years, I was never found...how could I have been so mindless?_

Before long, her eyelids began to droop, until the gentle hand of sleep led her beyond reality and into a dream world.

* * *

Finally able to slip from his duties in the city, Petyr Baelish descended the stone steps into the catacombs of Kingslanding. The echoes of his boots barely fazed his thinking mind, any face he passed went unnoticed; he was set upon one thing alone. A name.

_Eirie_.

After she had been hauled away, Petyr had counted his steps until he could see her again.

Currently, his feet had traveled 9534 steps.

_That child king couldn't see the rare creature he had in his grasp if it bit him in the arse_. The lord thought and he grew closer her; the girl that had been brought to Kingslanding not five days prior._ I thought the colour of her eyes might have been enough of a hint that she should be treasured not locked away._

_..9578_

Lord Petyr Baelish's reputation preceded him. He was not known for showing any act of kindness nor compassion towards any the king's prisoners -nor any resident of Kingslanding for that fact- but this being was none of those. She was enigmatic, and she would be his, in what ever sense.

_9690_...

Gradually, his rushed steps slowed to a careful walk. One after another, each cell passed, until finally, he found it. The last confinement that could pass as a room. There she was, huddled in the farthest corner. If he hadn't trusted his ears and eyes, he would have told anyone that he was gazing at a wild beast found only in the most unpleasant reaches of Westeros.

"Oh my darling girl, what have we done to you?"

* * *

_A/N:Awe. Poor Eirie :c Reviews are wonderful:)) Tell me if you have any ideas! TELL ME!_


	4. Chapter 4

FOUR

"Oh my darling girl, what have we done to you?"

The voice was so quiet, Eirie almost hadn't heard it. Her crusted eyelids blinked open after a long moment, pupils adjusting to the light emanating from a torch. Her sharp gaze met with a dark figure just outside her door; illuminated by only the flickering light. The person was not large like The Hound, nor small like the king; simply average and not terribly imposing. However, regardless of the figure's stature, Eirie cowered back, practically becoming one with the stones behind her. Since she did not have the upper hand, she was fully on defence.

"Who's there?" She called in a broken whisper; the little water she was given resulted in her voice sounding like boots on gravel.

There was a time of quiet, and during the silence, Eirie began to think she had imagined her company completely. Perhaps it was her breaking mind reaching the shattering point? Maybe she was starting to lose sense...she thought she was still functioning perfectly fine, biting at anyone who came too close. But Eirie began to think she was wrong.

"Perhaps I am one whom you could come to call a friend."A low male voice riddled.

A glimmer of hope sparked in her eyes. The figure -man- _was_ there, she wasn't mad...not completely.

"A friend?"

The voice chuckled dryly."Well, what one could classify as a friend in Kingslanding, Little one." His voice came, rough and calm. There was an accent foreign to her ears as well.

Lord Baelish moved a tad closer to better his view of her; still remaining in the shadows. What he saw horrified even him- the silver-tongued "Eyes and Ears" of Kingslanding, who no doubt had seen the worst.

Purpled bruises and coats of blood stained her porcelain skin; her hair returned to the maddened mess he had beheld when he first saw the girl; the sharp gaze he had seen not five days ago had lost the spark, replaced with dwindling embers; her proudly fragile frame had gone thin from malnutrition and starvation. But little did he know that there was still a fighting spirit in there. A surge of disappointment stuck through him. _Did the child king have no mind?_

"Why are you here, my lord?"She whispered.

"I have come to..." _Come to what? Come to pry her mind apart? To manipulate her into trusting you? To free her? Use her?_ "...take you from the lion's jaws," _Or simply take her to a worst beast_? "and show you how to survive among the beasts."

Eirie curled in on herself, wincing visible and soundly. It was like watching a frightened child lost in the dark. She lay so still, Lord Baelish thought her soul had left her completely, giving her to the gods above them. He went to exit, contempt evident in his features, but was stopped by the most heart wrenching cry. It was that of a lamb, just before the axe splits its neck.

"Y-you're not going to...hurt me?"

A heavy sigh came from him. _Yes, I may hurt you, but not alike the ways these beasts have_. "No, no I shall not, Sweetling."

* * *

The screech that followed through with unlocking and opening the cell was beyond painful on the ears. The sound ricocheted off the halls and walls, floors and ceilings, creating a deafening whine that seemed to close in on anyone down there.

Placing the keys he had acquired into his robe pocket, Petyr moved into the cell quickly, raising the fragile creature to stand against the stone wall. _What a mess_. Up close, she looked even worse. There was no centimeter of cleanliness on the girl, even around her clouded eyes was dirtied with tears and grime that had accumulated there.

He took a new set of keys from up his sleeve- a smaller set. Picking up the left, small pale arm of Eirie, Petyr carefully slid the key into the lock at her wrist. The shackle gave away, and he repeated until every chain and shackle was settled on the stone floor.

A gentle warm arm of a sturdy nature wound around her waist and another took her arm, gently guiding Eirie closer to the outside world. She carefully looked up at her savior and was met with the gaze of a storm. Rolling clouds of grey-green tumbled across steel seas of secrets. The man that held her was only a few inches taller than herself and had neat, short dark hair with gray peppering his temples, along with a well kept mustache and goatee. Through her analysis, Eirie's eyes began to glaze and blur, but she didn't let herself go. Not when she was so close to free air.

They moved slowly and quietly up to the surface, stepping into rooms or small halls if a guard approached. Little detours were made on these accounts, but the directional change's forefront was to avoid Clegane. When The Hound had finally finished his duties along-side the king and passed them while they hid, Eirie's heart nearly stopped in it's place. While she dealt with his beatings day in and day out, she did not mind Hound. But as far as she was concerned, he was a servant to the king.

His eyes stayed forward as he passed them, staying on his course to her cell. While he did not see them, he would know she had disappeared from her confinement in only a matter of time. Then they would be in trouble...but trouble could wait. Baelish had to get the little creature away from prying eyes and swinging fists.

Once they reached the main level of the castle, the Petyr pulled a powder blue, silken scarf out from under his robes and draped it carefully around Eirie's face and shoulders. He swung Eirie into extravagant halls and up winding stairs, walking calmer now, as to not attract any unwanted attention. As they went down one hall, Petyr ripped Eirie discreetly from the main walk-way, and down a more secluded corridor. Neither of them spoke, until they reached an aged, dark wooden door.

"They have provided me with a room here in the Red Keep, though I do not see why. It has no relevance for I stay in my...own dwellings. But it remains there for my use." The lord explained.

He placed a simple brass key in the lock, turned it, and it clicked. The door swung open to reveal a simple but comfortable room. There was a large bed with matching bed covers and drapes, a solid desk, a large window that had a small window seat. It was tidy, and simple, but perfectly lush compared to anything Eirie was used to. She was reluctant to enter._ Is this a trick? Is this an ill thought trick?!_ Eirie started to shake her head, first slowly, then frantically as hysteria took over. Her thin legs began to move back trying to get away, but to no avail. She only met a sturdy chest, to which, she croaked out a squeak of shock.

A soft "Shhhh..." spun the air around her. Eirie felt a slender hand carefully guide her into the room; she looked back at him with confusion and terror evident on her face.

"I wish for you to stay here for the time being. You are not safe anywhere, but you will be...better here." He concluded softly, but he still saw the reluctance, "I will not harm you, Sweetling."

The dry, hard gaze that had haunted Eirie's features moments ago softened. Who was this man? A friend, he had said. Friend...the word felt odd and inexperienced on Eirie's tongue; strange, but not fully unwelcome. A friend to help her play among the lions. A mentor? A strategist? A teacher. This man was not to be trifled with, played or crossed, she knew this already. He was probably dangerous...but he was her only mark of safety. And taking refuge with a dangerous man seemed to be her best bet against the odds, but something in the back of her mind squirmed, like it was trying to tell her something was off._ But...what? He wouldn't hurt me, he had said. He is no strong man, surly no match for me..._but something about his hesitation made her doubt the truth in his words, but there was another thing. It was the way he looked at her, watched her, observed her; like she was...precious. Like he was guarding her.

"It would be best if you did not leave this room, we wouldn't want something to happen to the King's new object of play, now would we?" He smirked at her ragged gasp, but it soon vanished. "There should be a tub of warm water through there," He pointed to a doorway protected adorned with beaded strings,"Now go. Rid yourself of this dirt. The bed is yours to sleep in, I will return in an hour's time." With that, he swept from the room, leaving little Eirie to collapse to the stone floor in exhaustion.

* * *

Picking herself up from the tiles, Eirie meandered to the other room. In the middle of it, was a simple copper tub, nothing special, but any form of civilized nature was an extravagant luxury in the eyes of Eirie. Having lived in the expanse of the outer world for the majority of her life, she knew little of pleasantries, and accommodations she only knew of what she was taught as a child all those years ago.

Peeling the thin and few layers of cloth from her body, along with the blue scarf, she carefully stepped into the bathing tub. Like it had when she first arrived, the water bit and nipped at her skin and wounds. Slowly, she scrubbed at her face determined to rid herself of the memories of what poisoned her thoughts; her weakness that allowed her to be captured by the Lannisters. Angered by the burn of the washcloth, she scrubbed at her white scalp with the same ferocity, then small arms and chest. A sob wracked the tiny girl of porcelain in her wash water, growing louder when she realized the scrubbing wouldn't would make any difference. She couldn't scrub the sheer humiliation of disgust from her skin. She cried for being weak. She cried for being captured. She cried out of confusion. She cried for the smallest possibility of kindness shown to her. She cried, and she didn't stop.

Her delicate skin was glowing red when the second layer of dirt was finally chiseled away. Slipping from the tub, Eirie stepped cautiously into the next room, ensuring that there was no trap awaiting her. Wobbling uneasily, she groped at the wall; the strength she had had was nearly diminished. Eirie collapsed by the hearth, finding comfort in the gentle, elegant flames dancing before her, forgetting where she was, forgetting the pain in her body and mind, forgetting the danger that closed in around her the longer she remained in the crowned city of Kingslanding.


	5. Chapter 5

FIVE

She did not know how long it was until she opened her eyes, but when she did, dusk had long since passed. Warmth seeped into her skin from all around her, much like a cocoon. At first, Eirie forgot about her capture, the bruises and her likely approaching demise. The saviour that brought her to a haven had slipped her mind as well; the storm in his eyes and the lies behind his aid. As far as sleeping Eirie was concerned, she currently lay in her home -her safe habitat she had created for herself in the wild. As far as little Eirie was concerned, all was well, and the only thing to worry her was her next meal. To put it simply, Eirie was in a safe haven.

Alas, that peace ended, and so she began to slip back into consciousness. The fuzziness of her slumber ebbed away; a cool breeze dusted her cheeks and the warmth she had felt was no longer in her mind- it had a physical source. Her muscles began to cry out in displeasure from the result of a certain stony and chained prison that had encompassed her previously. Yet, they seemed to rejoice from a new pressure other than rock, but rather, a soft cloud.

Eirie's eyes began to flicker. Dull red and orange clouds accumulated behind her eye lids as they opened. Her vision yawned out to see a fire place, lit and crackling; a door way with stings of beads cascading down from its top; a desk; a window-

A man.

He sat on a simple chair near the fire, his gaze locked onto the flames. He was entranced.

Everything came back to her suddenly. The capture, the king and the inhumane masquerade around her known as Kingslanding. And him. This man that sat so contently before her when he had in fact committed treason not long before. Eirie found herself dissecting him- picking him apart piece by piece. Danger. Mischief. Keep away. But regardless of all the words swirling in her head, "safe" resolved the strongest. He was all those things she thought, and more, but he was her safe spot. An island in a storm. This recollection caused her to breathe in deeply.

Then, something smacked her in the face, metaphorically speaking that is. It was the realization that she had passed out on the carpet by the fire, yet now she lay feet away from it and heightened. Eirie looked down. There was a remarkable soft hyde of an animal rubbing against her naked skin- the fur was dark and thick. She was in the bed that she had first seen when entering the room however log ago. Though how she had gotten _into_ the bed escaped her-

"You're awake."

Her exhausted eyes flickered to the voice's source. She could have sworn she saw his breathing alter for a moment and a change in the light of his eyes. But it was so quick, Eirie allowed it to pass.

"H-"she went to speak, but all that came out was a dry whisper, beyond recognition. Her equally dried up throat spasmed and contracted from the abuse it had been through. Eirie coughed uncontrollably, her lungs were looking for air where there was none.

The man bolted up and seemed to be at her side in an instant. He raised a goblet of water to her lips, which she opened, and sipped at the liquid, so as to not drown herself. It was laced with some sort of oil that further soothed Eirie's throat; she began to breathe better and swallow properly. The man waited, his eyes not leaving her once as though she were worth his undying attention.

"Hello..."she whispered, not quite meeting his gaze with her unusual irises. Instead, she focused on his shoulder. It was a smooth slope that looked almost gentle. Regardless of how it appeared, she speculated that there was more weight on that one shoulder that any man could carry. The secrets; burdens; plans; information and cruelty that he knew and had known- they rested there. Eirie's hand slipped out from under the fur while the other loosely held it to her breast. When she reached out and her small hand met with his clothed flesh, Eirie felt almost relieved. She was not hallucinating; that she was not still in that cell; that he had found something new; she was his for the taking. That was something she needed to explore; was she his for the taking or for the keeping?

Her eyes became enthralled with having physical contact. A breath escaped her mouth and she let the fur skin fall; not caring that she was exposed, though Petyr hardly noticed. She took in one breath after another, they slowly became gasps; if it weren't for her dry eyes, Petyr would have thought that she was sobbing. He looked down at where she touched him, fully realizing how even the simplest touch can save a life.

"Thank you.."

Petyr returned his gaze from his shoulder to Eirie. She was staring at him.

* * *

"My Lord, pray tell, what is your name?" She murmured to him.

From her place against the headboard, Eirie could almost see the heat of the fire meeting his skin; a pink hue colouring his nose and cheekbones. He hesitated, this man waited a great deal, Eirie found. Always contemplating and calculating.

As he thought of whether or not to tell her his name, Petyr felt the heat from where her hand once was. That was a mere half of an hour ago, yet the warmth seemed to be imbedded into his skin.

"My name is Baelish. Though you may call me Petyr when it is just you and I."

Then he added,"There are many a listening eye and prying eye so we must take care. We can not let anyone think that I am helping you or who know what may happen."His rough voice grated against Eirie's eardrums, reminding her of her old home. The armoured soldiers strolling to their posts after their leave, the wheels on market carts in the main square, the conversations that boiled within the walls and the sound of her father when he was tired, but would tell her stories regardless.

She grinned.

"No..."It was quiet, but Petyr heard it. He turned towards the small girl. Her hair was a mess, curling, swirling and sticking up; eyes wide awake; skin returning to its pale norm. She looked alive. Very much alive.

"We mustn't."


End file.
